ForkWordPoems by Inchiki |
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Let op! DrempelsThe ink itself says more for truth than any words. Outside it rains. But in here it is warm Because of the fire which cracks and makes a hollow sound. Damp clothes hang about. They dampen the air. Three people lie and speak nothing. My hand is tanned and dark brown already by the sun. It writes the same. Another week of things done. Sometimes I sit in the fields here - not new - and try to find something - new. It's overdone but necessary, or I feel nothing. Every evening we drink hot milk. By candlelight: No electricity here. Then I go to sleep and dream strange dreams. Sometimes people ask me if I'm ok. What to say? "No, because I don't know who I am" ? The answer is not in words or ink (I think) The past is like a shadow with no sun. It's there when I look. Six bright squares of light, neatly framed. I'm talking about the window now; never mind. Mind stitches together all those little bits of clumsy infinity. Somewhere there's a really nice place. It has a warm fire and a spot to sleep. No one to disturb the endless melody. There are no windows or doors. One is always inside. from the red notebook, 1998 |
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